Reunion
by MizJoely
Summary: Commissioner Sleer has everthing, and everyone, she wants. Capturing Avon and his rebels is the next step on her return to the top...but they might have something to say about that! Post Gauda Prime.
1. Smoking Gun

**Gauda Prime**

Avon stood over Blake's body, gun smoking in hand. He made no movement as the troopers surrounded him, just smiled unnervingly and stared into an unseen distance...

"Tarrant was right; you _were_ betrayed."

Avon knew that voice, knew the musky scent of the woman whose voice it was, knew the feel of her hand as it trailed across his back and shoulders. Knew Servalan before she spoke or came into his view.

"Yes, Avon, you were betrayed," Servalan purred as she stalked around him. He still hadn't moved. Only his eyes showed any emotion, and the ones reflected there made the troopers uneasy, even though he was their prisoner; they were a noxious brew of anger, hatred, self-loathing and, they feared, insanity. A dangerous blend. "You were even betrayed by one of your comrades," the former President of the Terran Federation continued, stopping behind Avon. Then she whispered into his ear, four words that nearly killed him. "But it wasn't Blake."

She paused to allow the words to sink in, then stepped away from her prisoner with a throaty laugh as he finally moved, turning to look at her with incredulous fury. "I'll leave you to ponder that, my dear Avon," she said, laying a hand on his arm and pulling him aside as the medics rushed in and began working desperately on Blake. "For now, you and your companions..." She spared a meager glance at the scattered forms lying in various poses of unconsciousness around them, visibly dismissing them as she returned her attention to Avon. The only one she truly cared about. "You are all my prisoners."

Curiosity flared in Avon's eyes before he turned his head away, jerking his arm out of her poisonous grasp. He didn't move very far, just enough to remove the self-styled "Commissioner Sleer" from his line of vision as she added tauntingly: "The soldiers were under orders to shoot at heavy stun. Central Command wants prisoners, not dead bodies." Another dramatic pause as Avon felt the weight of her gaze shift from him to Blake. "A pity you were under no such constraints."

Avon ignored her final taunt, tried to ignore her presence entirely, but Servalan was having none of that. She slipped around until she was dead center of his vision once again, waited until his eyes reluctantly met hers, then smiled and held out her hand. "You may as well it give it to me, Avon. I've already found your hiding place, and I know you have the key." Her voice lowered to a persuasive murmur. "It's so much more dignified this way, don't you think, than having one of the guards search you?" She nodded at the soldiers still surrounding them, just out of range of her lowered voice. "Why put yourself through more humiliation?"

His eyes moved to her hand, then back to her face. She gave a tiny, encouraging nod, her patently false smile no disguise for her eagerness. Orac was her ticket to power, even more than the coup of bringing in Roj Blake and the remaining _Liberator _crew, or the equally notorious newcomers who had followed Avon on the _Scorpio_. She would be ruthless in her drive to return to power, and he knew that this was only the first step.

And yet, what did it matter? He wouldn't live to see that rise, or if he did, that would be the last thing he saw, he and the others that were only stunned--no doubt in order to stand trial on Earth. He felt as numb as they were, and in the end that was what decided him. What could it possibly matter, the small piece of plasteel that he was fumbling for in a hidden pocket, while the nervous guards raised their weapons--in case he was reaching for a bomb, he thought with an attempt at a sneer, but the numbness wouldn't allow even his normal defensive emotions full rein. He pulled out the item she wanted, stared at it for a moment, then dropped it into the hand Servalan still extended. He held her eyes briefly, then turned away as her fingers closed covetously around the electronic key.

Avon stood in weary resignation as someone strapped his wrists into binders behind his back, staring straight ahead as he was hustled outside to a waiting transport. He barely registered the fact that the others were bundled on board as well, all but Blake, who was taken elsewhere. Naturally; he'd held himself apart from the others this long, why should he be with them now? It made perfect sense if you just agreed that the universe was insane. Perfect sense.

The guards assigned to the prisoners were not at all happy about their duties, in spite of the fact that they had the advantage. Even the fact that the others were groggily regaining consciousness didn't worry them. No, it was Avon, Avon's eyes and the bitter, self-mocking smile that hovered about his lips, that made them uneasy.

It was a long ride back to the ship.

**oOo**

Commissioner Sleer was quite satisfied with the way things had turned out on Gauda Prime. She now had a total of seven prisoners--eight if she counted her special hostage--and her return to power was practically guaranteed. More than guaranteed, if she allowed herself to think about Orac--but she couldn't allow herself that luxury, not now. None of the soldiers she'd left behind on the planet knew what she had said to Avon, nor did they realize the significance of what he had handed her. And none of them would know--not them, and certainly not the captain of this transport. But she couldn't allow herself to gloat, not just yet. She forced herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. Later, when she was alone, she would be able to think in longer terms than the immediate future. With an effort of will she focused on the prisoners that assured her of a warm reception on Earth. Seven prisoners, all alive and in good health--well, almost all. She frowned and activated the communications panel on the wall of her quarters. "How is the patient doing?" she asked, seemingly at random.

A hushed voice responded. "Dr. Lloyd here, Commissioner. The patient is in stable condition for the moment, but we won't know anything for several more hours. Dr. Ehr is working on him right now. The wounds were severe, and very close to the heart--"

"I am aware of the extent of the damage," Servalan interrupted coldly. "What I wish to know is if he will live to stand trial, or if I will merely be triumphantly parading his corpse around the streets of the Domes."

There was a pause at the other end of the speaker. When the doctor replied, her tone was considerably more icy. "I am sorry, Commissioner, I didn't mean to bore you with such trivial details." Servalan smiled at the resentment she heard in the other woman's voice. "At this point in time, it is impossible to determine if the patient will recover or die. We shall, however, continue to keep you apprised of any changes in his condition."

"Very well, doctor," Servalan purred. "I shall attempt to curb my impatience. It is just that I have waited a long time to bring in this particular group. A _very_ long time. And none of the others are as important as he is." She paused, then added as an apparent afterthought: "By the way, Doctor, how _are_ the others? Recovering from their stun damage with no problems, I hope?"

"They should be conscious by now, Commissioner. Shall I connect you with Detention?" Dr. Lloyd's impatience gave her words an edge.

"No, that won't be necessary," Servalan replied easily. "I trust my staff to know when to give me information I require." She cut off the doctor's response to the implied rebuke, if any was forthcoming. Really, the medical people were so tiresome, always thinking themselves above any type of punishment...she must remember to make an object lesson of an intern or two, to set the rest of the profession straight. It would be so amusing…

**oOo**

Kerr Avon was not amused. It had all been a set up, as he'd feared, but not one of Blake's doing. Once again, he had acted hastily on insufficient information--or rather, he hadn't _acted_, he'd _re_acted. Always dangerous, but that was how he'd been living his life since Blake's disappearance after Star One, careening from one disaster to another, every day feeling a little more of his sanity chipping away even as he tried desperately to hide it from the others and deny it to himself. Not that he felt he'd succeeded; Vila, for one, knew from first-hand experience how narrow a ledge Avon had been walking, even if he'd never said anything. Not even after Malodaar, when Avon most expected to be held accountable, which never failed to astonish him when he allowed himself to think about it. Vila hadn't exactly forgiven him for that ugly incident, but Avon had seen what he believed to be understanding in the thief's eyes when it was all over, an understanding that Avon hadn't been able to acknowledge at the time.

But he could acknowledge it now, no matter if it was too late or not. Now he could acknowledge the reasons behind his erratic behavior, the strain he'd been putting on his sanity by pretending to be someone he was not. The strain of trying to be Blake only to find a Blake that had changed had proven to be too much for him, he admitted with painful honesty. It had almost been enough to push him over the edge he'd been teetering on for so long. But Servalan, of all people, was responsible for pulling him back, though he doubted she knew or cared. In a universe turned upside down, she had come between himself and madness through the simple expediency of acting in a predictable manner, by doing exactly what Avon expected her to do when he expected her to do it. If it wasn't for the hatred he bore her, he could almost feel grateful.

His mind churned as he watched the others, still groggy from the stun beams, being herded into separate cells. Well, as separate as could be allowed under the circumstances. The ship's brig only held three cells; it was never intended for anything more than punishment of the occasional mutinous crewman. He watched wearily as Tarrant and Dayna were pushed into the same doorway, then Vila and Soolin into the next one down. Vila's hands were still tightly bound behind his back, where the others had been released as they were shoved into their cells. It almost made Avon smile; although the discomfort would give the thief endless reasons for complaint, he would be secretly flattered that the Federation considered him such a threat.

There was only one doorway left, and only one person. Himself. He'd seen the medics working on Blake, heard the order given for him to be taken to Sickbay. He should consider himself fortunate that Servalan wanted Blake alive. Avon was surprised to find how relieved he was by this fact. _I didn't kill him._ _At least, not yet._

As he waited for the door to his cell to be opened, the computer expert reviewed his actions up to the point where he allowed emotion to overcome reason and shot Blake. Tarrant had jumped to conclusions--after all, he hadn't known Blake, had never actually met the man before this mess--and he, Avon, had been all too willing to believe those conclusions. Looking for Blake had become an obsession, and, like all obsessions, had gone too far. _I've been a fool_, he thought with disgust. _This is just what I deserve for listening to Tarrant in the first place._

"All right then, let's have those hands." Avon's reverie was interrupted by the guard's brusque demand. He held out his wrists and watched as the guard unlocked the restraints and gestured with his gun toward the dark entrance. For a brief moment Avon entertained the idea of overpowering the trooper, who was obviously nervous about his prisoner. But the thought was rejected almost as soon as it was formed; he was _too_ nervous, looking for something to happen, and besides, where would he run to? Servalan was no doubt waiting for just such a desperate move. In light of this knowledge, Avon merely inclined his head in a mocking half-bow and strode into the cell.


	2. Auld Lang Syne

Avon looked around his new quarters as the door closed and locked behind him. The cell was small, but provided ample room for two cots along the side walls and a lavatory of sorts in the back. The lights were low, which meant it was "night", but he could see that he was to have a roommate after all. The cot to the left was occupied, but whoever was under the covers wasn't coming out. Sleeping, Avon decided, although he himself would have awakened at the sound of the door opening. But then, his first instinct would be to study the newcomer from beneath the covers before allowing himself to be seen. He shrugged. If his fellow prisoner didn't feel like being sociable, well, that was his choice. Avon wasn't feeling particularly sociable himself, right at the moment, and a prison cell was hardly the place to make friends. But, as he crossed over to sit on the empty cot, a familiar voice froze him in his tracks.

"Hullo, Avon. It's been a long time."

Avon turned, not believing the evidence of his ears. But his eyes only confirmed her identity. She was sitting up slowly, brushing wayward strands of honey-blonde hair out of her eyes with a familiar gesture. Avon blinked once, then finished crossing the room and sat down to give himself time to think, to wonder what Jenna Stannis was doing here, alive, when Blake had said she was dead...

Well, there was one way to find out. "Hullo, Jenna," he replied. "Fancy meeting you here." He paused. "By the way, what _are_ you doing here? I'd been told you were dead."

Jenna's lips twisted in wry, humorless smile. "Straightforward and to the point as always, Avon. Would you believe rumors of my death--"

"Had been exaggerated?" Avon finished the ancient quote, his own lips quirking in what was almost an answering smile. "Obviously. I am more interested in hearing how you found yourself the prisoner of Madame President--pardon me, of Commissioner Sleer," he corrected himself with a sneer.

Jenna smiled, a real smile this time, but one that quickly faded. "It's difficult to explain, Avon, but I suppose there's no other way than to just come right out and say it." Her shoulders hunched defensively as she lowered her eyes. "I'm the reason you were set up," she said, then waited for the explosion.

When nothing but silence greeted her confession, she raised her head and forced her eyes to meet Avon's. They were icy with anger, but anger held strictly in check. "I assume you have more of an explanation than that," he said, his voice as cold as his eyes, but his mind was churning at the unexpected confession. It made sense, when he stopped to think beyond the mere fact of Jenna being alive when Blake said she was dead--Blake. _It wasn't Blake_, Servalan had taunted him with those words, but his bruised and battered mind had been unable to pass beyond the moment when she spoke those words, as if they had set up a barrier to his thoughts, a barrier broken now that Jenna had answered the question Servalan's revelation begged. _If not Blake, then who?_

Jenna pushed irritably at her hair before rising to her feet and pacing a few steps in front of her cot, careful even in her anger not to come any closer to him. Not now. "I had no choice in the matter." The words came out harsher than she'd meant, but Avon's anger, while expected, had the equally expected--but considerably less welcome--effect of bringing her guilt to the surface. Jenna had always masked defensiveness in anger; it occurred to Avon that she hadn't changed, and that comforted him in a way he never would have believed possible. In a world where friends became strangers without warning, any signs of familiar behaviour, of normalcy, were more than welcome.

"Who told you I was dead? Blake?" Without waiting for an answer, Jenna rushed on. "If Blake told you I was dead, it was because I deliberately staged my death. I had to get out, and that seemed to be the safest way to do so. But I got caught." She shook her head in self-disgust. "I wasn't cautious enough, and someone recognized me from my smuggling days. That was almost three months ago. I was being held prisoner until Servalan decided to set up this whole scheme to bring you down. If I didn't tell her what I knew about Blake's operations on Gauda Prime, she'd kill Jared."

"And who might Jared be?" Avon asked, intrigued in spite of himself as to the identity of someone Jenna felt capable of betraying her former comrades for. Especially Blake.

At that moment, the door to the cell opened. A trooper, gun at the ready, ducked into the room. He looked at the two prisoners suspiciously, then nodded to someone still standing in the corridor. "Compliments of Commissioner Sleer," he said, looking over at Jenna. "She says to tell you that she does sometimes keep a promise." With that, he ducked back into the hall. The door remained open just long enough for a small form to run through and hurtle itself straight into Jenna's welcoming arms.

She and the child clung to each other without speaking for a long moment. Jenna sat on the edge of the bed in order to pull the boy into her lap, kissed the soft, curly brown locks covering the top of his head and returned her gaze to Avon. "This is Jared," she said simply.

Avon felt his eyebrows rising, and didn't bother to hide the expression of astonishment he knew to be covering his features. He studied the small boy, who was peeking back at the strange man with a faint expression of alarm in his blue eyes. Those eyes disappeared once again as the child buried his face in Jenna's chest, and her arms tightened around him protectively. "Does Blake know?" Avon finally asked.

Jenna shook her head before lowering it to plant another kiss on the child's head. "As soon as I realized I was pregnant, I left."

"Without telling Blake why." The words could have been accusatory, but they weren't, and after a long moment, Jenna responded to them, and to the mildly inquisitive tone in which they were spoken.

"I wasn't thinking very clearly," she admitted. "My mother used to tell me that running away never solved anything, but the truth is, I panicked. The life I was leading was too dangerous for a child, and although I thought about ending the pregnancy, I couldn't. The baby was too much a part of me; more importantly, it was a part of Blake. A part," she added softly, "he seemed to have lost." Her voice turned bleak. "Blake's changed, changed in ways I never would have believed possible. Become harder, less forgiving and less trusting, and I justified that change in him by running away, by betraying him." Her voice filled with an aching sadness. "I don't know what he's going to say when he finds out."

She fell silent, gnawing on her lip as she rocked the child. Jared. Blake's son. Avon felt an ironic smile tugging at his lips, an irony laced with the bitterness that seemed to be the most popular emotion of the day. He, too, wondered if this was a betrayal Blake would be capable of forgiving--just as he wondered if Blake could forgive the fact that Avon shot him. Or, indeed, if Jenna would be able to forgive him... He raised his eyes to hers once again. "Since this seems to be True Confession time, I suppose I should tell you that Blake is in surgery right now."

Jenna stiffened, but her tone remained neutral as she asked, "What landed him there? Madame President took great delight in describing her plans to me, and she did mention that stun weapons would be used."

"I shot him," Avon replied. His voice was filled with indifference--indifference to what he was saying, indifference to her reaction to those words--but his eyes gave everything away. How had Jenna ever believed him to be cold and emotionless? His eyes reflected his pain in ways he could never fully control; they reflected his guilt, too, and regret. It was fascinating, watching Avon's eyes when he spoke. Usually one was too busy being angry and defensive when Avon was speaking to notice his eyes. Now, Jenna knew better. "I shot him," Avon repeated, more to himself than to her. "Three times. In the chest. With a projectile weapon." There was a lengthy pause before he added, "Tarrant--our new pilot--said he'd betrayed us, and I was foolish enough to believe him."

Jenna supposed that she should be angry with him, with the man who had just confessed to shooting her lover, the father of her child. He hadn't even told her why he did it, not really, or how badly Blake had been hurt, if he would live or was in danger of dying, but she couldn't summon the energy to ask for details. Not yet. Blake had been the center of her life for a long time--too long, maybe. Now, she had other things to consider besides Blake and his Cause. She was tired, tired unto death of it all. Her defensiveness and guilt retreated under a layer of mind-numbing exhaustion. "Well, I guess we've both betrayed him then," was all she could find to say.

Her words held condemnation and absolution for them both.


	3. Prisoners

"So. What do we do now?"

Vila glared up at Soolin, wincing only slightly at the headache that small movement caused. _Her_ head didn't seem to be aching--it wasn't fair. "What do we do now?" he repeated sarcastically. "What kind of question is that?" He turned so she could see his wrists, still firmly manacled. "D'you think I can pick these with a bloody hair pin?"

"Can you?"

Vila, who had opened his mouth for another complaint, closed it abruptly as he turned back to face Soolin. She was holding something in her hand. Two somethings. He looked down, then back up at Soolin's impassive face. "Hair pins?"

Soolin nodded. "There's more where that came from." She shook her head, with its elaborate braid and bun. "Holding this lot up. What did you think I used, anti-grav units?"

"Course not," Vila mumbled, but he couldn't hide the note of hope that had crept into his voice. "Just hang on while I move my hands around to the front."

Soolin watched in fascination as Villa, with a lot of swearing and sweating, finally managed to contort his body enough to get his arms and hands beneath his legs and from there to the front of his body. It took a bit longer--and nearly half the precious supply of hair pins--for the two of them to get the binders off, but they managed it. When the manacles clattered to the floor, Vila winced and glanced at the cell's entrance, his fingers automatically massaging his wrists, but no one came to investigate the noise. "Guess we didn't make enough noise to get anyone's attention," he observed after a tense moment. "Or else no one's listening."

Soolin nodded. "And no one watching us either." She'd automatically searched for listening or watching devices as soon as the cell door closed and locked behind them, but found nothing. Which was suspicious, but she kept that thought to herself.

"Not here or outside the cell," Vila agreed, as if reading her mind. "I can't even hear a guard out there, and it seems strange that Servalan didn't put one outside every cell when they brought us in. She certainly had enough men to herd us all in here. I don't remember much after we left the planet, but I do remember feeling awfully crowded on that shuttle." He closed his mouth on the other thing he remembered, Avon shooting Blake, and the last thought he'd carried into unconsciousness--that perhaps Malodaar hadn't been an isolated moment of madness for the computer tech, but instead the beginning of the end of his sanity. Such thoughts were meant to be kept to one's self until forced into public view, and since Soolin wasn't mentioning Avon right now, neither would he.

"Maybe it's just good soundproofing," Soolin suggested, trying not to let Vila see how surprised she was at his observation. Really, when would she learn not to take things at face value? Especially Vila. He only acted the fool when he wanted to, she'd figured out that much shortly after joining Avon's bunch. Some of the others hadn't quite got it yet--Tarrant, most notably--but she knew Avon wasn't fooled.

Avon. Now there was dangerous ground. She very carefully kept her thoughts to herself about that one; after all, blurting out her suspicions about the precarious state of his sanity wasn't likely to win her any points. Not unless she wanted to join Tarrant in an all-out coup against the original _Liberator_ crewmen. Because, sane or not, it was obvious that Vila was still loyal to Avon, and oddly enough, she trusted his judgment about people. Even insane people. Vila had good instincts, and although she was unlikely to ever tell him so--he'd become unbearable if she did--she was willing to follow his lead in that area as well as his instinct for survival.

Like now. He was shaking his head impatiently at her comment about the soundproofing. "Soundproofing? In a ship's brig? I can hear things out there, normal ship noises, can't you? But no one moving, not even shifting about from having to stay in one place, the sort of noises you can't help making when you're on guard duty. Not outside our door, at any rate."

Soolin moved closer to the door, listening. Vila was right, and again she squelched her surprise. "I don't hear anyone, either. Could she have just one guard inside the cell block, maybe by the main door? And the rest on the other side?"

Vila shrugged. "Dunno. Seems a bit sloppy, if you ask me. Not really Servalan's style."

"Stylish or not, it might work to our advantage," Soolin mused.

"Or it might be a trap." Soolin glared at Vila, then dropped her eyes and nodded; again, the thief was right. "She might be waiting for us to try and escape, so we can be shot. After all," Vila pressed on, "we can identify her as Servalan. She might rather bring our bodies back and not take any chances--better a dead body you have to explain than a live body that can explain itself," he finished, with the air of someone quoting a favorite saying. "That's probably why there's no cameras or recorders--so no one can hear us talking about her."

"But if she wants us dead, why use stun weapons on us?" Soolin objected, then answered her own question. "Probably because she was under orders to bring us in alive, in which case the only way she _could_ get rid of us would be if we were shot attempting to escape. So you're right, it could be a trap." Soolin tapped one foot against the floor impatiently. "But I can't see us just sitting here, waiting tamely to be taken to Earth to be put on trial and executed."

Vila nodded. "I s'pose you're right," he agreed glumly. "When you put it that way, there's no real choice, is there. We either try and escape and possibly get killed now, or we sit tight, get taken to Earth for execution." He shuddered. "Lovely thought." He moved toward the door.

"What are you doing?"

Vila looked over his shoulder. "Getting us out of here, of course. Isn't that what we just decided to do?" He flexed his fingers and grinned as he held up the remaining hair pins. "With these and a few things I have here and there," he patted his shirt front vaguely, "I just might be able to do it. Lucky for us this is an older transport, it shouldn't be too hard to get out of here." He turned back to the door, listening intently before crouching down to study the lock.

Soolin leaned against the wall, watching in fascination as Vila set to work. He was full of surprises, that one; she would have expected him to collapse into a gibbering heap at the possibility of dying here on the ship, had been rehearsing arguments and threats to use on him when he tried to convince her it would be better to wait. He'd thrown her off balance by his easy acceptance of their situation, and she wasn't sure she approved. But it certainly was worthwhile to watch him at work, first on the binders, and now on the door.

She just hoped things would turn out better than she feared.

XXX

"Well?"

"Well what?" Del Tarrant countered tiredly. He wasn't up to being challenged by Dayna, not now.

"Well, what are we going to do?" she asked, doggedly pursuing the subject he thought he'd made abundantly clear he didn't want to talk about.

"Well, I'm going to sit down," Tarrant replied, suiting action to words as he sat with exaggerated care on the edge of the nearest bunk. "Then I'm going to lie down, and maybe get rid of this headache, if I'm lucky. If I'm _really_ lucky, I might even fall asleep." He looked up at her with a cocky attempt at a grin that fell far flat. "How does that sound?"

Her only response was a disgusted look as she stalked around the cell. Looking for what, he didn't know and didn't really care. Not right now. The shock of capture was still too strong, of being hustled aboard a Federation transport, in full knowledge that they were heading back to Earth at top speed, and that he was not only going to stand trial as a rebel and traitor, but also that the outcome of that trial would more likely than not be execution--and never mind who his relatives might or might not be. None of them would acknowledge him now, not unless forced to. And then, no doubt, only to repudiate him.

No, there was no chance of escaping, no matter what Dayna thought. He debated saying that part aloud, then decided not to. She wouldn't listen to him anyway. He closed his eyes and eased his head back onto the hard pillow as she paced restlessly around the room, a caged lioness bitterly resentful of her captivity. Dayna was not meant to be cooped up, of all their lot; she hadn't learned any of the patience the rest of them--except, perhaps, Soolin--had learned through too many weary hours spent in prisons and holding cells. Capture to Dayna was temporary, escape or rescue or some combination of the two inevitable.

Of course, they'd never all been captured at the same time, not like this. Dorian didn't count, he'd been too self-confident to actually imprison them until the very end. So Dayna's unspoken expectations of rescue would be for nothing. He considered warning her that this would only be the first of many long hours of waiting in cells, but decided not to. He didn't really want to keep reminding himself that the future held nothing but more of the same until the boredom and anxiety of waiting was interrupted by first a trial and then, no doubt, the end of their respective lives.

No, it was entirely too depressing, thinking about the future, and Tarrant found himself envying Dayna's determination to treat this imprisonment as something temporary, something to be got around. He knew how desperate their situation was, and so did she, but the difference between them was accepting the inevitable, which he was trying to do, and railing against the bitter unfairness of it and refusing to believe it was over, as Dayna was doing.

Tarrant turned on his side and put his face to the wall. Watching Dayna would only annoy him, or make him start to wonder if she might be right, and that sort of hope was something he could do without. No sense cultivating it, only to see it smashed into a million pieces at Servalan's well-shod feet. He closed his eyes, forcing his tense muscles to relax and willing himself not to hear the whisper of Dayna's boots against the floor.

Breathing as steadily as he could, Tarrant began, gravely and silently, to count sheep.

XXX

Commissioner Sleer silently counted to ten and reminded herself who everyone thought she was, in order to keep from strangling Captain Tesch. Who, in spite of his nod to the fact that she was responsible for the Gauda Prime coup, was stubbornly persisting in telling the Commissioner how he wanted things to run on his own ship now that the mission had been successfully completed. "We need the extra guards, you know who we've got in there," she tried again.

"Ringleader's in surgery, isn't he?" Tesch interrupted. Sleer nodded. Reluctantly. Tesch shrugged. "Well then, our brig's good enough for the rest of them. Unless you think your 'special prisoner' might cause problems?" He laughed at his own joke.

Sleer forced her teeth not to grind through sheer will power. "I don't think you understand," she began, only to have Tesch run rough-shod over her words. Again. It was an annoying habit under the best of circumstances, and today it was driving her insane.

"Thief's still manacled, right?" He didn't wait for her nod of confirmation before plowing ahead. "Troops are needed dirtside, for mopping up, Commissioner. The other commanders have requested my help, and I'm duty-bound to offer it. Especially on this mission. Gauda Prime's the biggest lot we've taken in yet, and Central Command has confirmed that the troops are needed there."

"And we have the best of that lot," Sleer pointed out, but she had the uneasy feeling she was going to lose this argument, in spite of her supposed rank. "You know we do. Why take chances? We haven't even any cameras in the cells, or listening devices. Don't you think--"

"We aren't taking chances." Tesch cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Leader's sedated, might not make it, if the medtechs are right, and the rest are locked up good and snug. So what do we need spying devices for?" he asked with typical military disdain for intelligence gathering techniques less straightforward than his own methods--never mind that such intelligence gathering had brought in not only Blake and his new rebel base but the bonus of the _Scorpio_ crew as well. "They're not going anywhere we don't want them to. We'll bring them back to Earth to stand trial, and that'll be that."

When Sleer opened her mouth to voice another objection, Tesch raised a warning finger. "Sorry, Commissioner, but those are our orders. I don't just make arbitrary decisions; Central Command and I agree on this one."

Sleer bristled at the implied rebuke--arbitrary decisions, indeed--but managed, yet again, to keep her temper under control. Actually, it was just as well there weren't any spying devices in the cells-it might prove awkward if any of the prisoners mentioned that Sleer was Servalan. As of right now, only she and Tesch knew exactly who was on board this particular ship. That could only work to her advantage, but she couldn't allow Tesch to get the upper hand. If she gave up now, it would place her in a position of weakness as far as their relationship went, far weaker than if he actually won the argument. "Nevertheless," she tried, only to find her words run right over by Tesch. As expected.

"The soldiers we brought are going to be allowed to do what they do best." His voice turned steely. "Which is not babysitting a bunch of locked doors--no matter who's behind them--while their mates dirtside get all the glory. I won't do that to them." He shook his head. "No, the prisoners won't give us any trouble--won't be allowed to. We'll pump a sedative into the cells, if you like, keep 'em under until we reach Earth, but for now we're going to make best speed back home. We have escorts on the off chance someone tries an outside rescue, and that's that."

Sleer seethed inwardly as she nodded, although it practically choked her to control her anger and toady to this short-sighted fool at the same time. _When I have resumed the presidency--no, before then_, she vowed silently. _When I am once again Supreme Commander..._ She left the threat unfinished in her mind, satisfied with reminding herself that her current situation would not--_could_ not--last. To believe otherwise would be intolerable.

She smiled grimly as she strode away from Tesch, adding him to her mental list of people needing to be dealt with almost as an afterthought.

Soon she would be in a position to deal directly with her enemies--_all_ her enemies--as she personally desired. Soon, very soon, Tesch would discover that he'd made a mistake in crossing her will, no matter how minor a matter he considered it.

And she would enjoy every second of it.


	4. Revelations

Dr. Sanda Lloyd sat next to the still-unconscious--and unidentified--patient, one eye on him and one on the monitoring screens above his head. The surgery was over, the desperate race to save his life before it leaked away had been won, but barely. She would watch him for the next four hours, then it would be Dr. Ehr's turn. Those eight hours would tell if the race had ultimately been run in vain.

The young doctor frowned. Everything about this mission confused her, from the way Commissioner Sleer--that arrogant bitch--had commandeered Dr. Ehr from one of the other ships to care for this patient when it became clear that Dr. Lloyd would not be able to perform the surgery on her own, to the fact that this ship and her two, smaller escorts were running under strict radio silence, not even communicating with each other on the journey back to Earth. It was not only confusing, it was disturbing, perhaps even frightening, but Lloyd found herself too indignant to feel fear just yet. Commissioner Sleer's arrogance might work well on the military drones, but she had no right to treat the medical staff like mutoids or delta-class slaves. Especially when she needed them to keep this prisoner alive, whoever he was.

Lloyd frowned again as she leaned forward in her seat in order to more closely examine her patient's face. She'd had neither the time nor the inclination to do more than note gross details during the grueling hours of surgery with Dr. Ehr. The good eye was closed, of course, just like its permanently closed companion, and had been since he was first carried into her sickbay. She itched to examine the scarred eye, but kept herself from doing so out of the sure knowledge that his body had enough to deal with right now; that wound was old, it could certainly wait until he recovered from more recent bodily outrages.

Her eyes moved to the close-cropped hair curling damply around the edges of his face, slick with sweat and a few, random streaks of blood no one had bothered to clear away, and her unconscious frown deepened. She reached for a basin and clean cloth to take care of that oversight, her hands moving automatically to clean up the patient's face while her eyes continued their abstracted study of his almost-familiar features. Why did that eye and that hair bother her, why did they seem unreal, not quite part of the man she was looking at? With two good eyes and the hair worn longer, she thought she might recognize him, although she wasn't sure she wanted to. He was obviously a crimo of some sort, the mission had been so top-secret that she hadn't been informed of any of the details, not where they were going, not why, not who any of the prisoners were. She knew there was at least one other prisoner on board before they even left their home base, which brought it to a total of seven, including the man lying in front of her. Prisoners, crimos, perhaps even rebels...

She gasped and leaned back abruptly in her seat. "Roj Blake," she murmured in sudden realization of his identity. No wonder the mission had been so secret; if Commissioner Sleer pulled off such a coup as to bring in the notorious rebel and his entire crew, her ticket to power was all but assured. And power, the doctor sensed, was something the dark-eyed woman craved the way others craved love or acceptance.

"How very perceptive of you." Dr. Lloyd jumped at the sound of that unexpected voice, turned with a gasp to face the intruder.

It was Sleer, appearing as if summoned by the doctor's thoughts. "I trust you are as discreet as you are perceptive," the Commissioner murmured as she stepped around Lloyd's chair and peered critically at first the patient--the prisoner--and then at his medical read-outs.

"Of course," Lloyd stammered, unnerved by the Commissioner's sudden appearance; she hadn't even heard the door open behind her, so preoccupied had she been with her own thoughts. "After all," she added as she forced her voice under control, "who would I tell? And what would be the point? You'll be putting him on trial soon enough." She waited, barely breathing, to see if the Commissioner would accept her placating words.

"Indeed," Sleer replied, but the danger was still there, in her eyes and barely concealed in her voice. "He seems to be doing well." She nodded at Blake's unconscious form, her voice now filled with satisfaction. "I'm pleased. Your work will not go unrewarded."

Ah, first the subtle threat, now the more obvious bribe. "That's very good to know," the doctor replied, her voice carefully balanced between professional pride and gratitude. With just a dash of greed thrown in to show she appreciated the bribe as well as she understood the threat. She allowed none of her fear or dislike to show, although she was aware that she had already made that mistake when Sleer called during the surgery. But now there was nothing else for her to concentrate on; let Sleer think her earlier words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, that the doctor was remembering her place.

It seemed to work. Sleer nodded, visibly dismissing the doctor from her thoughts as her eyes returned to their gloating study of the unconscious man lying in front of them. Dr. Lloyd remained on her feet, stiffly aware of how hazardous a moment she had just negotiated, and suddenly afraid for her patient. Blake was a dangerous fugitive, a rebel, a terrorist, and he therefore deserved to have justice served, but she knew that justice was not what Sleer was after, that justice was, to the other woman, only useful as a means to an end. And power was that end.

XXX

Servalan forced herself to move at a leisurely pace as she returned to her quarters, forced her mind away from the new problem it had just been handed until she reached the privacy of the captain's cabin--which had been graciously "donated" to the Commissioner by a less intransigent Captain Tesch at the beginning of this mission. The mission that was the first step in her return to power. She ignored the two guards standing outside her door, brought with her to ensure her privacy, merely brushed past them as if they weren't there. She was used to them by now, confident that the extra money she gave them every week was enough to buy their continued loyalty. They lived much better lives, when off-duty, than their peers. And when they were no longer useful, it would be a simple matter to use that unexplained luxury against them--a double insurance on their loyalty, one she'd already made quite clear. Betray her, and they would pay for it. She was quite satisfied with the arrangement.

However, there were other matters she was not so happy about. When the door shut behind her, Servalan allowed the disdainful facade to disappear, allowed her irritation with Dr. Lloyd--and her continued vexation with Tesch--to show. Tesch would wait, but Lloyd was going to have to be dealt with, and soon; although Servalan had itched to shoot the younger woman the moment she realized Blake's identity, she'd restrained herself, merely waited to see what Lloyd would do with the information. The doctor's control of herself was impressive; she had obviously known what danger she was in the moment she spoke to "Commissioner Sleer" in the infirmary. Clever, the former president of the Federation was willing to concede, but certainly not clever enough to realize that Sleer was aware of a certain communication the doctor had received at the beginning of this mission, before radio silence was mandated. A communication that could bring her loyalties into question.

Servalan paced around the room, her mind racing as she studied the problem Lloyd's knowledge represented. It wasn't only her knowledge of Blake's identity and therefore her ability to extrapolate the identities of the other prisoners, but also her knowledge of the Federation's plans for her home colony. There was always the chance that Lloyd's knowledge of Blake's identity would pose no threat to Servalan or her carefully laid plans, but she had never been the type to trust her fellow humans--or leave anything to chance. Especially where her own skin was concerned. So she swiftly dismissed the idea of leaving Lloyd alone, if only because she'd already laid the groundwork for taking care of the doctor. It was always best to plan ahead.

Servalan counted herself fortunate that the communication from Lloyd's cousin had been intercepted; now she could use that as evidence that the doctor had been collaborating with the rebels, and her death would be that much easier to explain away. But she would still have to be careful, which was the only reason the doctor was still alive now. Captain Tesch was far too by-the-book for anything less than solid evidence of Lloyd's treachery to convince him that Sleer's actions were justified; she would have to make it obvious that Lloyd was trying to help Blake's people, manipulate her into a situation where the only action that could logically be taken was either to kill or incarcerate her. Then make it necessary to eliminate the second choice.

Tesch had been correct about one thing, she conceded as she returned to an earlier irritant; outside rescue attempts would be their greatest worry on the voyage back to Earth, and even that was almost too remote to seriously consider. Although Blake and Avalon were believed to be in contact before the coup, a simultaneous raid on the other rebel leader's newest headquarters was currently underway. Of all the rebel factions, she was the only one in a position or inclined to help; Avon certainly hadn't spent his tenure in Blake's shoes in making friends, either personally or for the rebellion. Vila was cuffed, and Tesch had no doubt already taken care of pumping the sedative into the three cells to make certain the prisoners remained helpless.

A frown creased the former President's brow as she allowed herself to feel concern for Avon. He simply didn't look well, either mentally or physically, and she wondered if the sedative might have a negative effect on him--other than knocking him out, of course. Did he have a strong enough heart?

With a laugh Servalan forced her concerns away. Of course he did; one didn't go about committing acts of terrorism with a bad heart. Besides, what did it matter? The glimpse of insanity she'd seen lurking behind his eyes while he stood amid the carnage at Gauda Prime told her his mental state was more to be feared for than his physical. And not even that would matter, not for long. Not once she was back in power. And Avon, whatever his mental state, had handed her the key to that return to power. Not by surrendering to the inevitable when the soldiers had surrounded him and the bodies of his stunned comrades, but by his actions afterward.

When he surrendered Orac's key.

Orac's key was hers, and she'd located Orac itself with very little trouble. It was obvious Avon had other things on his mind when he picked the ridiculously simple hiding place for the supercomputer. She gathered from that small oversight that he hadn't actually expected the ambush, that he'd truly believed that Blake wouldn't betray him. Of course, he'd been right, but Avon of all people should have realized that the reunion of the Federation's two most wanted rebels would hardly go unnoticed. More fool he, since she now had Orac.

Now it was time to let the computer know it served a new master. She rose to her feet, plucked the computer's clear plasteel casing from its hiding place, and placed it in the center of her desk before inserting the key. The casing lit up and a querulous voice demanded to know where it was and to whom it was speaking.

Servalan raised an amused eyebrow at the peremptory demand, then decided to respond. "You are talking to Commissioner Sleer--"

"Then I am talking to Servalan," Orac interrupted rudely. "In which case I deduce that either Kerr Avon or the entire _Scorpio_ crew are your prisoners or deceased. Very well. What do you want from me? If it is merely to establish your credentials," it added without waiting for a response, "you may consider it done and allow me to return to my research."

Servalan gaped at the box for a moment, taken aback by the computer's tone, not to mention the contents of its little speech. "Am I to believe that you accept me as your new controller just like that?"

"Unlike the illogical, emotional humans I constantly find myself surrounded by, I deal strictly with facts," Orac replied haughtily. "If my facts are incorrect, then I shall adjust my information accordingly. But I judge that my facts are, indeed, correct in this matter. I am aware that there is no way that any of my former 'controllers'," he repeated Servalan's word sneeringly, "would allow you access to me of their own volition. Therefore, you have gained control of me by subduing or killing them. Which confirms my original conclusion, and justifies my original request. Either ask something of me, or allow me to return to my research."

"I shall have to do something about that insolent tone," Servalan murmured to herself. "But you are correct; I wished to speak with you merely to establish my credentials. Since you have acknowledge my control, I will do as you ask. But I will be requiring your services shortly," she warned. "I expect you to follow my orders without argument."

What sounded suspiciously like an impatient sigh issued from the box. "Very well, Servalan--"

"You will refer to me as Commissioner Sleer," she interrupted sharply. "Even when we are alone. That is an order, do you understand?"

"Very well, Commissioner Sleer," Orac conceded. "I shall do as you require in this matter."

Servalan yanked the key out and tucked it into the pocket she'd had sewn into this dress for just that purpose. She gazed at Orac's casing, breathing rather more heavily than she should be--from annoyance, of course. Dealing with Ensor's machine was going to be more difficult than she'd estimated, but she had confidence in her ability to manage it, just as she had confidence in her ability to manage situations and people. The super computer seemed to bear no loyalty to Avon or his crew, and that suited her purposes just fine, but she would have to be very careful not to allow anyone else access to it, for she could expect the same lack of loyalty toward herself. Fine, she was used to that, to watching her back, and since no one else knew she had Orac--except Avon, of course, who was hardly in a position to do anything about it and would be dead shortly after they reached Earth--she shouldn't ever have to worry about the extent of that loyalty.

Everything was going according to plan.


	5. Plans & Schemes

"Tell me what's been happening since we were separated at Star One."

Jenna nodded confirmation of her question as Avon raised an inquisitive eyebrow. It had been over an hour since either of them had spoken, as much out of a desire to process the information they'd already offered each other as out of deference to Jared's sudden need to nap. He lay nestled in Jenna's lap, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Or exhausted. Either description applied. "Servalan has taken great pleasure in denying me any specific information outside of her plans to take you all in. And I hadn't heard much of anything beyond wild rumors of your activities before Jared and I were captured."

Avon shrugged without really moving; Jenna found his body language fascinating, now that she wasn't watching him through eyes filled with mistrust. Perhaps the old saying about absence making the heart grow fonder was true. Or perhaps she was simply wallowing in sentiment; either way, she found herself unwilling to question her newfound empathy for Avon. She just accepted it. "What do you want to know?"

While part of Jenna's mind grappled with her change in perception of the man seated opposite her, the rest of her was hungry for news of her former comrades. "You mentioned Vila, Blake, and those other three--Tarrant, Soolin, Dayna. You said your ship, the _Scorpio_, was destroyed." She took a deep breath. "What happened to _Liberator_? And Cally? Don't tell me they ran off together," she added, trying for a light tone. And failing miserably. Avon could probably see right through her, but she didn't really care about keeping up a facade, not now, under these particular circumstances. If anyone had ever told her she'd be glad to see Avon--especially after he admitted to shooting Blake--she'd have laughed in their face. And yet here they were, talking like normal people, no matter what the subject matter. Not sniping, not scoring points, not trading sarcastic quips. Just talking. It was strange, but comforting at the same time.

"No," Avon was saying. There was an odd look on his face; Jenna had trouble placing it right away. "They didn't exactly run off together, although you could say they went together."

Jenna braced herself; with an opening like that, the news could only be bad. "Cally died in an explosion meant to take us all out, on a planet aptly named Terminal," Avon continued, and Jenna finally recognized the expression in his eyes by hearing it in his voice: guilt. Another surprise for this surprising day. "Servalan tricked us there with false reports of Blake, and _Liberator_ was destroyed on the way, due to my haste," he continued, managing to get his voice under control with the exception of the slightest tinge of self-contempt. But his eyes, oh, his too expressive eyes, were haunted. "Dayna and Tarrant had already joined us, right after we lost you and Blake at Star One, and Soolin joined us shortly after we left Terminal."

There was more, she could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes, but she also saw that it was more than he was able to give her just now. Jenna respected that need for privacy, for time, but she knew he would tell her eventually. All the details he was holding back would come out, sooner or later. She could see he was a man aching to confide his pain and yet afraid to do so. Under other circumstances he would keep that pain to himself, but these circumstances were unique, their situation was unique, and thus she was content to wait, to make no demands of him.

But not for long, and certainly not forever. Her ship, her great, big beautiful ship was dead, the closest thing she'd ever had to a best friend was dead, too, and all she could do was nod her acceptance of Avon's guilt-ridden words. She'd never been one to let anyone see her affected by strong emotion, and somehow, in spite of her new feelings of acceptance toward Avon, she still felt that need for privacy. When she was able, she would mourn; perhaps when he gave her the rest of the story, the details she hungered for. But not now, not in front of anyone else. Especially her son.

She glanced down at Jared as he yawned and opened his eyes, seemingly unaware of the underlying tensions in the room. He had his mother back, the scary lady was gone, and therefore all was well. He sat up on Jenna's lap, concentrating on his attempts to fold the pillow in half with the single-minded intensity seen only in small children and, perhaps, leaders of rebellions. He hadn't heard their conversation, and Jenna only hoped that he was too young for these experiences to leave any lasting scars--for however long his life might be, which was something she refused to speculate about. It was too frightening; she forced herself instead to concentrate on the moment at hand. Living in the now was familiar, she'd been doing it for most of her adult life, and it was the only way to keep her current situation from driving her insane. That, and Jared. She had to remain in control of herself for his sake, if nothing else.

"What about you?"

Jenna looked up, startled by the unexpected question. "What about me?"

"I never had a chance to ask Blake--I know the end of your story," Avon interrupted himself awkwardly. "I know why you left Blake. But I still don't know why you and Blake left us in the first place."

"It's not as if we planned to," Jenna replied, her mind unwillingly returning to that day. It seemed so long ago... "Nothing so complicated as that. And it's not as if we were together from the start," she continued. "It took us months to find each other again. By then Blake thought you'd abandoned him, taken _Liberator_ and run. So did I," she admitted. "He was upset, but I think he understood. He'd given the ship to you, after all, and you'd made it obvious that all you wanted was to stay clear of him and his dangerous rebellion." She shrugged. "So he decided to honor the decision he thought you'd made, and I--decided to stay with him."

"Surely he didn't think the others would agree to such a thing?" Avon asked, his voice held rigidly under control. Jenna almost told him not to bother, then decided against it. It was such an ingrained habit that he probably didn't even realize he was doing it. Or didn't care. "Cally was a true believer."

"But she was in love with you," Jenna countered. This time it was her own voice that was held under tight control. "Blake knew it; he wasn't as unobservant as we often thought," she added wryly, thinking how easily he had seen through her own motives for staying with him. "He simply thought she chose to stay with you."

The words were a knife, cutting deep into a hurt Avon hadn't allowed himself to feel for a long time. Not since Terminal. "I see." And he did, finally. He saw the hurt he had done to Blake clearly for the first time since Cally and Servalan's false Blake had betrayed him, the one by dying before he could save her--by telepathically telling him to save Orac first and not letting Avon know how precarious her own situation was until it was far, far too late--and the other by not being who he thought he was. For the first time, he realized that Blake had also been hurt, had believed that Avon rejected his tentative offers of friendship and trust. _"For what it's worth, I have always trusted you." _Blake's words haunted him still. The knife cut deeply, but it cut both ways; why hadn't he been able to see that before? All of this could have been prevented, if only he'd been able to see what Blake saw--and vice versa. The old saying about walking a mile in the other man's shoes drifted through his mind, and he dropped his eyes from Jenna's knowing gaze before she saw too much.

Jenna saw the distress her words caused Avon, but didn't know what--if anything--she could do about it. She opened her mouth--to say what, she didn't know, but closed it again abruptly at an unexpected sound at the door.

Jenna tensed, her hands automatically going to Jared's shoulders as he dropped the pillow, alarmed, and leaned into his mother's grasp with a small whimper. "It's not time for a meal," she whispered, her eyes fixed as tensely on the door as her hands on Jared's shoulders, all concern for Avon's emotional state buried under sudden panic for her son. "There's no reason for anyone to come here, unless it's for interrogation, or--"

"Or to ensure your continued cooperation," Avon finished Jenna's unfinished thought with a nod at Jared. He found himself completely focused on the moment. The past would have to wait; he would deal with Jenna's revelations and his own realizations later. For now, he found himself absurdly relieved by the onslaught of what could be a new crisis; later, he would be forced once again to confront himself and his actions, but not now. The three of them waited in silence as the door finally opened...

...to reveal the smugly smiling face of Vila Restal.

"Hullo, anyone in here fancy a bit of freedom?" Vila's cocky smile faded as he took in the occupants of the cell--especially Avon. But the frown disappeared in turn behind a gape of astonishment as he recognized Jenna--and noticed Jared. "Bit quick for you two to produce a child, innit? 'Specially one that big." His voice trailed off in confusion as he studied Jared again. "Only problem is, this young man doesn't really look like you, Avon."

"I suppose part of the problem is that I haven't exactly looked like myself lately." Vila's chin threatened to drop off his face as he gaped in astonishment at Avon. Could that possibly be some sort of oblique _apology_ he was offering? Avon? To Vila?

While Vila continued to stand in the doorway and stare, a hand appeared from behind him and tapped him pointedly on the shoulder. A female hand. Vila started violently, glancing back with a scowl as he moved further into the room. "All right, all right, I'm moving; you don't have to push, Soolin."

"Avon," Soolin said, not so much acknowledging his presence as counting heads. "And this is--?"

"Jenna and Jared Stannis," the former smuggler replied, trading cool look for cool look.

Soolin nodded, and Jenna noted with amusement that Vila seemed for once to be at a loss for words. A loss that he quickly recovered from as he grinned knowingly. "Good looking boy, Jenna; I suppose he's the reason we're in this mess?" Vila didn't seem to need Jenna's defiant nod of confirmation. He barely looked at her before his grin faded and he turned to face Avon with a "let's get this over with" look.

"Now we know why we're here," he stated. "It was a trap, Tarrant was right, but it wasn't Blake, was it, Avon?" He studied the other man's face, saw the truth there. Avon knew Vila wasn't anywhere near as foolish as he liked other people to think, look how quickly he'd figured out who betrayed them and why, once he realized who Jared's father had to be. But then, he'd never thought it was Blake in the first place. "It wasn't Blake, but you didn't wait to find out, did you? No, you just did what you're always accusing the rest of us of doing--rushing in without thinking. And you shot him. You didn't even give him a chance to explain."

Before Avon could respond to the painfully truthful accusation, Jenna spoke. "What difference does it make?"

Vila turned to Jenna with a startled "Huh?"

"You heard me," she replied. "What difference would it have made, in the end? We're all here, and Avon says Blake's in surgery, so they're keeping him alive long enough to stand trial. Avon made a mistake, Vila, but so have we all--some more than others," she added in a low voice. She kept her eyes fixed on her former traveling companion's face, determined that he understand how she felt. "I don't know what's been going on with you since Blake and I left, how things have been, but I do know that we didn't help the situation any by staying away. It was what we thought you wanted--what Avon wanted--so we did, for good or ill."

Vila continued to stare at Jenna in confusion; of all the people to hear defending Avon, he'd never have expected it of her. Apparently motherhood had mellowed the former smuggler. Or perhaps not; the look she fixed on him promised blue murder if didn't at least appear to make an attempt to believe her. Then again, why shouldn't he? Avon had been under a lot of stress--hell, they'd all been under a lot of stress, Avon more than any of them, hadn't he just been wondering about that? Jenna had a lot of reasons to want Avon dead right now--wasn't that Blake's child she held so protectively? And if she didn't want Avon dead, there must be a good reason. Or so Vila hoped. It was unsettling enough to have Avon behaving uncharacteristically contrite; when Jenna started acting out of character, there was a good chance the universe was coming to an end.

Jenna watched Vila's internal struggle with an outward semblance of calm, but it was the tightly coiled calmness of a snake before it struck. If Vila didn't accept her words, didn't accept Avon's relative innocence, then things could get ugly. _Uglier_, she amended silently. She relaxed only slightly when Vila appeared to resolve his inner conflict, collapsing into his usual casual slouch against the doorframe. "Right. I guess that's settled, then."

"Do you have a plan, Vila?" Jenna again, her tone sharper than she intended, to hide the relief that showed so clearly in her eyes. Relief that things might work out, somehow, between them. That the friendships they had once, warily, cherished might still exist.

"A plan? Of course I've got a plan, what do you think, I go round freeing people from cells without having a plan?" Vila's outrage was plainly exaggerated, perhaps to hide his relief that Avon wasn't the enemy, that Avon could still--perhaps--be trusted. "D'you want to hear my plan? Well, here it is. I planned to get Avon out first so he could think up a plan to get us all out of here with our skins intact. That's my plan, Jenna; what do you think?"

Jenna couldn't stop the smile, and found that she didn't want to. Vila was exactly as she remembered him, proving that, no matter how much the universe seemed to turn on its head, some things were comfortingly impervious to change. Soolin wore a perfectly blank expression that Jenna recognized from her own repertoire. It masked all her emotions while plainly stating that her suspicions were still aroused. Suspicious or not, she seemed content to follow Vila's lead. If he was willing to trust them, she seemed to be saying, then so was she. To a point. Jenna understood that kind of suspicion; it was healthy, a suspicion that kept one alive and sane in a dangerous and insane universe. It wasn't, she thought, the kind of suspicion that could breed paranoia.

Avon was more prone to that kind of suspicion.

Jenna nipped that thought in the bud. Now wasn't the time and this cell certainly wasn't the place for such thoughts. No matter how true. Vila had seen Avon shoot Blake, and still his first instinct had been to search out the computer tech and wait for him to come up with a plan. In spite of his own fears and suspicions, he still seemed to rely on Avon to get them out of hairy situations. Well, so did she, truth be told.

Avon seemed prepared to do just that as he quizzed Soolin and Vila on the number and locations of guards--suspiciously few in this wing of the detention section of the ship --the location of Tarrant and Dayna, and a rapid-fire string of other questions she decided she'd better start paying attention to--especially as Avon shot one of those questions her way. "Are you certain Servalan's still aboard?"

Jenna nodded. "I'm surprised she hasn't been down here, gloating." She grimaced. "She paid me quite a few, how did she put it, courtesy calls. To offer her false sympathy and update me on the status of my son." That had been a hellacious period in her life, and it amazed her to realize how short a time it had been. _Never again_, she vowed with sudden determination, once again forcing her attention back to Avon. _I won't ever let it happen again._ "So. What's the next step?"


	6. Gaining The Upper Hand

Tarrant had actually managed to doze off and was just getting to the meat of a pleasant dream when he was shaken rudely and abruptly awake. His angry demand to be left alone, however, was slapped back into his throat by Dayna's hand across his mouth. That brought him fully awake and alert; his eyes snapped open and he nodded, just enough to let her know he understood.

Dayna pulled her hand away, and Tarrant strained to hear whatever it was that she was already listening to. After a moment, he heard it; the distinctive sound of someone outside their door. "Guard?" he mouthed silently.

Dayna responded with a grimace and a half-shrug. _Maybe_, that gesture told him, just as it told him, _Maybe not_. Tarrant rolled off the bunk and came to his feet as Dayna rose from her defensive crouch. If someone was coming to interrogate them, if Servalan was here to gloat, they would be found standing defiantly, waiting for whoever was taking such an inordinately long time at the door.

Tarrant frowned as he realized there was something wrong. If it was a guard, then he should be able to unlock the doors in no time--and if it was Servalan, that guard would do well to open the door even quicker. Even if Servalan was Sleer, she still oozed poison with every glare and danger with every impatient tap of her perfectly groomed nails. But if it wasn't a guard, and if it was taking this long to open the door, then that could only mean…

"Vila!" Dayna exclaimed softly as the thief poked his head around the door and gestured the other two forward.

As they started to move, a new sound intruded on Tarrant's consciousness, and he faltered as he tried to identify that quiet hiss. Dayna's hand on his shoulder wasn't gentle as she shoved him forward, and he realized belatedly that she was holding her breath. He did so as well, as the gas wafted gently into the cell, and didn't let it out until Vila had hurriedly closed and re-locked the door behind them.

He opened his mouth to ask Vila how he'd gotten not only them but himself out, but confronted only the thief's back as he turned to speak to Avon. Who looked much saner than he had during those last minutes on Gauda Prime, to Tarrant's private relief. "They've started pumping gas into the cell; d'you think that means they know we're up to something?"

Avon shook his head. "The lack of guards would suggest a serious manpower shortage on this ship; I assume the gas is meant to keep us sedated until we reach our goal." His lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Actually, I find it an encouraging sign." His eyes flickered over to Dayna, then briefly met Tarrant's before he deliberately turned to speak to the woman standing next to Soolin, a stunning blonde with careworn eyes and an armful of small child.

"Well, who's this then?" Tarrant broke in before Avon could do more than open his mouth. "I'm Del Tarrant, and this is Dayna Mellanby." He indicated Dayna with a gracious sweep of the arm. "I assume you've met the rest of our little party." He waited expectantly, but it was Vila who responded to the question, if not the outrageous way it was presented.

"This is Jenna and Jared Stannis," he hissed. "Now can we please get out of here before they turn the gas on in the corridors, too?"

Tarrant's eyebrow rose a notch as he recognized Jenna's name, and he nodded absently as Vila, with an exasperated noise, busied himself with the door that led out of the cellblock. He'd always wanted to meet the woman whose name Avon most frequently used as a taunt against the younger man's piloting skills. "Jenna Stannis, how absolutely fabulous to finally meet you," he said extravagantly, flashing her his most brilliant smile. Dayna gave him a disgusted look. "I've heard so much about you from Avon--"

"I'm sure you have," Jenna interrupted dryly. "Harassing the pilot was one of his less endearing traits, as I recall."

"And one of yours was your inability to keep your mouth shut," Avon shot back, but Tarrant could swear there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes as he spoke, and Jenna didn't respond like a woman who had just been insulted. She merely smiled and shifted the small child into a more comfortable position in her arms while they waited for Vila to do what he did best. Tarrant opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, only to be forestalled by Avon.

"Since I know you're going to ask," the computer man said, "yes, Jared is Jenna's son, and yes, Servalan used him to force Jenna to betray Blake, and yes," he finished, eyes glittering as the venom returned to his voice with unexpected force, "you erred in your assessment of the situation on Gauda Prime. And the final yes: I was a fool to listen to you, even for a moment." Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the venom was gone. "However, strange as it may seem, that momentary lapse into stupidity on my part may actually have been fortuitous, since we were not only able to rescue Jenna and Jared, but now have access to Servalan she rarely allows us." The cold smile he bestowed on Tarrant did not bode at all well for the former president of the Terran Federation. "That is, if Vila can actually get us out of here," Avon added pointedly.

"Keep your shiny black leather shirt on," Vila shot back, not bothering to lift his eyes from the job at hand.

Jenna stifled a grin at that, and she thought she saw the same expression struggling for release on Soolin and Tarrant's faces as well. Avon's look of outrage was almost exaggerated, but it and Vila's words had eased some of the tension his exchange with Tarrant had provoked. Of course, Jenna would never dream of pointing out to Avon that he and Tarrant reminded her of nothing so much as he and Blake, only with the roles reversed; in this case, Tarrant was the arrogant challenger of authority and Avon the authority figure. She did not think he would appreciate the comparison; no matter how differently she viewed him now, that much would not have changed.

"All right, this is it." Vila rubbed his hands together nervously. "One more door and we're out of here. And even if they didn't bother with guards inside the cell block, there's bound to be a few on the other side of this one."

"There will be two," Avon announced, then added blandly, "Most likely."

Vila gave Avon an odd look. "If you say so. At any rate, they'll be armed. What's the plan?"

Avon shrugged. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Tarrant demanded in outrage.

"Just that: I don't know," Avon replied coolly. "Our next step depends entirely on the guards. Or rather, on their condition." With those cryptic words, he gestured for Vila to open the second door--

to reveal the slumped forms of two guards, guns dangling from their hands, the sickly odor of the same sedative gas that had been pumped into their cells still lingering in the air. Avon passed quickly through the room, holding his breath and listening only briefly at the opposite door before opening it and gesturing the others into the corridor with him. They followed, Dayna and Soolin quickly retrieving the guards' dropped weapons before hurrying through the door before the gas could affect them.

"Well, that was lucky," Vila whispered once they were out of the small anteroom. "Them getting gassed by their own sedative and all."

Avon gave him an unreadable look. "Yes. I imagine it was misdirected, somehow. No doubt because they were in such a hurry to sedate us for the trip to Earth."

"No doubt," Vila agreed, his voice heavy with irony. But if he or the others had any more questions for Avon, they came to a mutual--and unspoken--agreement to save them for a better time; even the whispered exchange between the two men had taken far more time than was safe, exposed as they were in the corridor. "Where to next?"

Avon bared his teeth in a ferocious grin. "Why, to see Madame President, of course. She has Orac."

"Which is all well and good, but wanting her and finding her are two different things," Tarrant pointed out. "Where do we look?"

"I have no doubt that she'll have appropriated the best quarters on the ship," Avon replied without hesitation. "Since a ship this size does not boast VIP quarters, that can only mean the captain's quarters."

"And if you're wrong?" Tarrant challenged.

Avon shrugged. "I have been known to be wrong in the past," he conceded, "but in this case I doubt I am. We shall deal with that situation if and when it arises." He looked around the corner cautiously. "The layout in these ships is unvarying; Tarrant, you have the most familiarity with them. Do you think you can find the captain's quarters for us?"

Tarrant nodded. "Follow me."

**oOo**

Servalan sighed in pure, sybaritic relief as she stepped out of the small bathing area attached to her quarters. How Tesch could possibly have given up the singular privilege of a real shower was beyond her. She was just grateful he appeared to be as indifferent to pampering himself as he was to her opinions on how to handle the prisoners. For which she was still fuming, she reminded herself as she fastened the last delicate pearl button on her dress. It was her one weakness, she admitted as she glanced at herself in the mirror by her bed, the one vanity she'd been unable to give up when she assumed the "Sleer" identity. She'd muted the wardrobe somewhat, but hadn't been entirely able to change her dressing habits. Growing her hair had been easier to adjust to than giving up her wardrobe.

"Why Servalan, fancy meeting you here."

She whirled, stunned, at the sound of that deadly--and familiar–purr. "Avon, how did you--never mind," she interrupted herself as she finally found him in the dimness of the room. "To what do I owe this unexpected…pleasure?" she asked instead.

She didn't notice Tarrant until it was too late, so focused was she on Avon, free and in her room. The impossibility of that, as well as her flash of vindication--hadn't she warned Tesch about this very possibility?--had captured her attention to the point that the younger man was easily able to slip in behind her. Then she as well as her attention was captured, caught up in a parody of an embrace as Tarrant threw one arm across her chest, pinning her arms to her side.

Servalan's eyes flashed angrily over the top of Tarrant's hand, which was now clasped tightly across her mouth. Those infuriated eyes more than adequately demonstrated her feelings on the situation. She didn't bother to struggle, but Avon knew that if she sensed any sort of weakness she would make her move. "All right, Servalan, hand it over." He moved closer and she stiffened in Tarrant's embrace. "I know you have it," Avon whispered, his words a mocking echo of the last ones she'd spoken to him on Gauda Prime. "It's so much more dignified if you give it to me, rather than forcing me to allow Dayna to search you for it."

Servalan froze as Dayna Mellanby stepped into view, a small weapon trained unerringly on her enemy's head. "No tricks, Madame President," Hal Mellanby's daughter said in a voice as steady as her hands, in spite of the hatred she didn't bother to conceal. "I'm absolutely _dying_ for the chance to avenge my father."

Filled with impotent fury, Servalan glanced at her desk, then back at Avon, ignoring Dayna's presence as best she could. Avon jerked his head and Vila appeared, searching the desk top and each drawer with practiced efficiency. It took him very little time to find Tesch's hidden drawer, which she'd already gone through in the commander's absence and found nothing of value. There was nothing there now except Orac's key.

Avon, meanwhile, hadn't bothered asking her where Orac was. It was too bulky to conceal, so she'd simply stowed it with her luggage. Avon found it a moment after Vila's triumphant "Got it!", inserted the key into the computer housing, and activated it. "Hallo, Orac, been busy, have you?"

"Of course." There was no mistaking the haughty sniff. "But you know that. I have been carrying out your instructions, and am currently awaiting your command to proceed. As ordered."

Servalan's eyes widened with shock, and Avon spared a moment to give her a nasty grin. "Thought you were controlling it, did you? Sorry to disappoint you, Servalan, but Orac has been following my pre-set commands from the start. I'm certain what you were told was very convincing. It was supposed to be." His smile turned deadly. "Orac's signal to execute my orders was your announcement that you now controlled him. Which, I have no doubt, you did immediately."

Servalan ground her teeth furiously. It had all been a trick. Avon hadn't overlooked the possibility of betrayal and capture after all. Instead, she had been the one to underestimate him. But how could she have known--? The shock and madness in his eyes when he and the others had been captured had been real, as had been his intention to allow himself to be killed when he thought the others were already dead--and that Blake had been taken down by his own hand. It had seemed a delicious irony then, but now she marveled at the strength of his mind, to survive such a series of blows. Avon had always been a survivor, and although she could admire that about him, right now it placed her at a definite disadvantage.

Servalan raised her chin as Tarrant released his grip on her mouth, apparently trusting to Dayna's presence to keep her in line. "If you expect me to stand quietly by while you murder me--"

"We expect no such thing," Avon broke in. He nodded at yet another person, and Servalan grimaced as Jenna Stannis came into view. Jenna, and Jared, and following them, the gunslinger, Soolin. Everyone except Blake. She should have known. If Avon had planned this as carefully as it seemed, he would have left nothing to chance. She should never have underestimated him…

"Really, Stannis, is this how you repay my generosity?" She turned her attention to what she hoped was the weak link. There was a chance, however slim, that the others didn't know who, exactly, had betrayed them... "After you led me to Blake and thus to your current companions--" she nodded graciously at the others as best she could, "--I kept my word and returned your child to you--"

"She's the bad lady," Jared said suddenly, the first words he'd spoken since his return to his mother. He'd been watching everything through suspicious eyes, never once releasing his hold on his mother, but now he pulled his hand out of her grasp and pushed up his sleeve to reveal the bruising marks of a vicious pinch on his upper arm. "She hurted me when I cried."

There was no telegraphing of the punch, no flare of emotion in Jenna's eyes as she laid the other woman out cold. Tarrant, as caught off-guard as Servalan, barely kept himself from crashing to the ground as he received not only the backlash of the blow, but also the full weight of a suddenly unconscious woman in his arms. He came heavily to his knees, then laid Servalan none-too-gently on the floor before returning to his feet. "A little warning next time would be appreciated," was all he said.

Jenna rubbed her hand and shrugged. "It had be done sooner or later, and it's the least I owed her." She knelt down to hug Jared. "Don't worry, sweet. She'll never hurt you again."

"Now what?" Vila asked, looking down at Servalan's unconscious form with a frown of distaste. "How that woman can dress like that and expect to remain anonymous is beyond me," he murmured, not quite to himself. Then he shook his head and returned his full attention to Avon, to whom his original question had been addressed.

"Now we get Blake," was the reply. "He's the only one not with us, and we need to make sure the Federation has no more hostages. Orac has disabled the ship's internal communications system and made it look like an ordinary malfunction. That will only work for a short time; when the problem turns out to be unfixable, the crew will be alerted to the fact that something more is going on. They may even attempt to break the radio silence 'Central Command' ordered them to travel under and attempt to communicate with one of the other two ships."

Vila caught the sneer in Avon's voice and rapidly put two and two together. "Central Command meaning Orac," he said admiringly. Then, as a sudden thought struck him: "I suppose Orac is the reason there are so few guards on this ship?"

"If they discover they can't break the radio silence," Avon continued smoothly, "we'll be in serious trouble. Before that happens, we need to be in control of the Sickbay. From there, we can have Orac gas the rest of the ship, and then we'll be able to take care of the crew." He didn't respond to Vila's question, but the glint of amusement in his eyes was answer enough.

Dayna grinned at Avon with as much admiration as Vila. "You had this planned all along. That's how you knew about the guards--and the 'misdirected' sedative."

"And of course we couldn't be trusted with any of the details--as usual, eh?" Tarrant interrupted bitterly. "Or was it just another thing you couldn't be bothered sharing with the rest of us?"

Avon looked at Tarrant, his eyes as level as his voice. "Interrogation was always a possibility, especially if the captain of this vessel or Servalan chose to act before any plans of mine could be implemented. And what you didn't know--any of you--you couldn't be forced to reveal. The risk was completely mine, and yes, I found it necessary to act that way. I always try to cover as many contingencies as possible. The fact that Gauda Prime might be a trap resulting in our capture was too obvious a possibility to overlook. Therefore I planned accordingly."

Tarrant nodded grudging acceptance of Avon's reasoning as Jenna spoke up. "So what's the plan after we secure Sickbay and gas the rest of the ship?" She admired Avon's ability to think two moves ahead of his opponents as much as anyone, but now wasn't the time to stand around marveling at his foresight, or challenging him for real or imagined slights. All that could be worked out later. Right now, somebody needed to remind them of the practicalities of the situation, and she had no problem assigning herself the task. "What then, Avon?"

He shrugged. "We see what our Fearless Leader has to say--if he's conscious." There it was again, that habitual mask of defensive sarcasm camouflaging his true feelings. Jenna fancied she was getting rather good at spotting it. "If he's not, then we take over the ship, fight our way to a safe spot, unload our unwelcome Federation 'hosts,' and go into hiding until he is able of offer more long-term suggestions."

"What, you mean you'd actually give up the number one spot?" Tarrant mocked. "I thought all you ever wanted was to be rid of Blake."

"So did I," Avon replied. Tarrant was taken aback by the naked honesty in Avon's voice. "But I have discovered that is much easier to deal with Blake than to try and be Blake. So." He looked at them. "Are we ready?"

A series of nods all around, then he turned his attention back to Jenna. "Are you certain you don't want to stay here with Dayna and help guard Madame President?"

She shook her head. "I'd rather face a roomful of Federation troopers than expose my child to that viper's presence one moment longer." She hesitated before adding, "Besides, I think I've delayed introducing Jared to his father far too long." Never mind the poorness of the timing; to wait any longer was impossible. Especially if Blake's condition was as bad as Avon indicated…

Avon nodded at the determination in her voice, then nodded approvingly as Vila and Tarrant began to strip Servalan's unconscious guards of their uniforms and tied them up securely.

Avon turned to Dayna as Tarrant and Vila worked. "Remember," he warned. "No accidents. Unfortunately, right now we're better off keeping her alive." There was regret in his voice, and Dayna responded to that regret with a reluctant nod. Only the fact that Avon wanted Servalan dead as much as she did kept her from making the childish gesture of crossing her fingers behind her back to denote a fib. She would do as she was asked--but let Servalan give her one excuse, and she would blow the murderous bitch's head off.

"Good luck," was all she said, flashing a victory sign as the others slipped out the door. Then she settled in to wait, her eyes never leaving Servalan's crumpled form.


	7. Bedside Manners

"Who're you?" The voice was slurred, but the words were recognizable. Lloyd jumped a little at the unexpected question, then turned to examine her patient as she answered him.

"I'm Dr. Lloyd," she said in a low, comforting murmur. "And before you ask, you've just come through surgery." She was pleased that he'd regained consciousness so quickly, pleased and wary. She knew he wasn't capable of even sitting up, much less anything more violent, but he was still a prisoner and rebel, as attested to by the presence of a guard outside the sickbay doors, and it wouldn't do to let down her own guard.

"Head's fuzzy," Blake mumbled, squinting at her through his good eye. "I ache--"

"It's the medication that's making you drowsy," Lloyd explained. "And you're going to ache; you've been shot." No sense pulling any punches; if he didn't remember how he'd got here, Sleer would no doubt be by in the morning to let him know exactly what had happened--and to gloat. Lloyd found herself unwilling to allow anyone, even a convicted criminal and notorious terrorist, to be at more of a disadvantage against Sleer than they had to be. He was already in a pretty poor position; the least she could do was arm him with the truth. "Do you remember what happened?"

He shook his head, then groaned and leaned back against the pillow. "No--yes. Avon shot me, because I was stupid enough to believe he wouldn't. Even though I gave him no reason to trust me." That seemed to distress him more than the actual shots, and Lloyd felt her sympathy for this man growing as he continued to speak, rambling on half to her and half to himself, about the foolish mistakes he'd made with his friend. Her cousin's communiqué had already forced her to face the reality of what the Federation had become, and now Roj Blake, infamous terrorist and alleged child molester, was forcing her to face the fact that he was a human being, not by any rhetoric, but simply by being himself, by being too weak to keep his emotions concealed.

Not, she sensed, that Blake was the type to conceal emotions under any circumstances; the hurt in his voice held no overtones of someone who habitually kept such pain buried inside, away from prying eyes. And she couldn't blame the drugs; they lowered people's inhibitions relative to the amount of reticence normal to that person, and to her trained eyes and ears Blake's emotions were very close to the surface no matter what the situation.

Of course, part of her whispered, if the Federation was capable of doing what her cousin Dio's communiqué said it was, then trumping up charges against a political dissident would be child's play by comparison. She winced at the unintended double entendre, then returned her attention to Blake's ramblings, aware that she was eavesdropping on a man too ill to realize what he was revealing to a stranger, but unable to stop. She felt an urgent need to understand him better before allowing official propaganda to color her opinions, and this would be her only chance to do so.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for her to make up her mind. Not long after he started talking, Lloyd was firmly convinced, rebel or no, that Blake couldn't possibly be guilty of all the horrific things he'd been alleged to do--especially the supposed reason for his original imprisonment. The regrets that had been pouring out of him, rambling and uneven, were centered around his friends and comrades, the things he'd done for the rebellion he believed so passionately in, the woman he'd driven away, the people who had died directly or indirectly because of him--but none were voiced for the children he'd supposedly harmed before his exile from Earth. She was positive that was because they existed only in the trumped up charges that had been laid against him during the trial she'd watched and wondered about only a few short years ago, a trial that had never struck her as real.

Neither her, nor her skeptical father, who had commented on how staged it all appeared. And now here was the very man they'd watched on official Federation transmissions to their home colony. She wondered what her father would think of him in person; she knew that she could feel the force of his personality in a way that hadn't come across the screen, and had a feeling her father would agree with her assessment of the situation. It was just so much Federation hogwash. Blake was many things; a rebel and terrorist guilty of crimes against the Federation, but a child molester, no. She was rock-certain of that.

Lloyd let him talk for a few minutes more, then reached over with a soothing hand and a damp cloth to wipe away the sheen of perspiration from his brow. "Please, try to rest," she urged him. "Self-recrimination isn't going to do anything for your situation except make you feel worse, which only slows down the healing process."

"Healing process," he repeated, his eye fixed on her face for the first time since he awoke. She thought he was actually seeing her now, no longer lost in his own musings. "Who am I being healed for?"

"Commissioner Sleer," Lloyd replied, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. It had somehow escaped the clasp at the back of her neck, and she spared a moment to pull the errant brunette strands back into place. "You're being taken back to Earth for trial--"

"For execution," he corrected her, and she dropped her eyes, unable to meet that one-eyed gaze any longer. "And it's not Commissioner Sleer for long, if I know her," he mumbled. "If she pulls this off, she'll be back in power in no time." There was defeat in his voice now, and Lloyd forced herself to look at him once again. He'd closed his eye and seemed to be sinking back into sleep, but not before the doctor heard him murmur: "Servalan always manages to land on her feet."

Lloyd sat in stunned silence for several minutes, while Blake drifted back to sleep. "Servalan," she mouthed, once, but dared not say the name aloud. Of course. It all made sense now, the woman's arrogance and high-handed abuse of the ship's personnel and medical staff--her treatment of Captain Tesch, who was only nominally her inferior in rank and her interest in Blake's recovery as well as his anonymity--it all made sense now. Sleer was, herself, one of the Federation's most-wanted.

The question was, what was Sanda Lloyd going to do about it?

>>>

An hour later, she still had no ideas. Blake was asleep, his breathing a bit labored but that was to be expected with such a massive chest wound. As she glanced around the quiet sickbay, wondering why she felt so uneasy, she tried to attribute it to her recent revelations. Unfortunately, the uneasiness she was now feeling seemed completely disconnected from her earlier thoughts; as her eyes lit on the chronometer, she realized what it was. Dr. Ehr was over an hour late; he'd promised to come and relieve her so she could get some desperately needed sleep. Since he'd taken the bulk of the surgery into his more experienced hands, she'd volunteered to take first watch over their patient. But now he was an hour late, a man who hadn't struck Dr. Lloyd as the type to keep anyone waiting--especially not a patient. Something must be wrong...

With a shaky laugh, Lloyd told herself to calm down. Of course there was nothing wrong; Dr. Ehr must have overslept, that was all. The surgery hadn't exactly been a walk in the park. She just needed to page him, to wake him up. Then she would go to her own quarters and try to sleep, although she doubted she'd be able to get much rest. Not with so much on her mind. She headed for the com panel, navigating the darkened room with practiced ease. She reached for the console, tapping in the code for Dr. Ehr's temporary quarters.

There was no response. Frowning, she tried again, ears straining to hear the click of connection or static, but there was nothing. The intercom was dead.

Lloyd stood there for a long moment, stunned into immobility for the third time this evening. Why should communications be interrupted. She couldn't believe it was a coincidence, not so soon after she not only discovered her patient's identity, but that of the mission commander as well. No, it couldn't possibly be a coincidence, and that realization spurred her into immediate action. If Sleer had decided that Lloyd was a threat…neither of her identities seemed the type to waste time once a course of action had been decided on. The question was, who was the intended target? Lloyd, Blake, or both of them? Had Servalan--she refused to think of the duplicitous bitch by her false name any longer--decided her prisoner was too dangerous, in spite of her presumed orders to return Blake to Earth alive? Or had she merely opted to silence the doctor herself? Lloyd cursed herself for not checking to see if any listening devices had been planted in her sickbay when Servalan was here earlier. Had she heard Blake say her name, was that the catalyst, or was it Lloyd's earlier discovery of Blake's identity?

"Stop wasting time, Sanda," she chided herself as she backed away from the console and returned to Blake's bedside. Part of her wanted to do nothing more than run away, find someplace to hide or someone to report her suspicions--no, her certainties--to, but she realized that would only postpone the inevitable. If Servalan wanted her, no one short of the Captain could save her, and that was only if he wasn't part of Servalan's plans. In fact, that would make sense, that Captain Tesch knew everything, including Sleer's true identity. Going to him could be the worst mistake she ever made.

Besides, she couldn't just abandon Blake to Servalan's tender mercies. It went against everything she believed. No, her best bet was to ready herself for whatever was about to happen--and pray she would be able to out-maneuver the merciless "Commissioner."

Before she could do more than turn to look for a weapon of some kind--a sedative hypo, something easily hidden in the folds of her uniform--she heard the sound of the outer sickbay door opening. Gritting her teeth, she finally managed to put her hands on the hypo she wanted, checked briefly to make certain it held a full dose, and hid it as best she could. She wouldn't go without a fight--and neither would her patient.


	8. All Together Now

Tarrant slipped noiselessly into the room, gun at the ready. It was dark, only the glow of indicator lights coming through the glass door to an inner room--the room Blake must be in--allowing any sort of visual besides the spill of light from the half-opened doorway. He frowned; there was no help for it, whoever was in the room knew he was there by that tell-tale light, if nothing else, and there was nothing left to do except brazen it out. "Hallo?" he called, using his best "official use only" voice. "Can someone lend me a hand out here? There's been an accident, my mate needs help--"

"I'll be right there." The voice was young, female, and came after a hesitant pause that alerted Tarrant even before a figure rushed at him from the darkness. He managed to avoid the hypodermic she tried to stab him with, but it took a moment to subdue her furiously struggling form.

Tarrant clamped his hand over the unknown woman's mouth, neatly avoiding her snapping teeth in the process. When he felt her securely in his grip--in spite of her continued struggles---he leaned over and whispered in her ear: "Look, I don't want to hurt you, so if you promise to behave I'll let you go. Otherwise I'll have to knock you out." He didn't sound as if he cared which option she chose.

Lloyd stopped struggling and nodded as best she could, but he didn't release his grip on her or her mouth until she saw another guard slip into the room and give it a thorough search. For anyone else hiding in the darkness, she supposed, her heart beating wildly. She had lived a quiet life, the only sorts of adventures being of a surgical nature, with her in control, and it was disconcerting to find herself at the mercy of complete strangers. Whether they worked for Servalan or not remained to be seen; for the moment, all she could do was wait. Whatever happened next, she grudgingly admitted, was out of her control.

The other guard finished circling the room, ending up at the second doorway. Lloyd tensed when he opened the door, then allowed herself to relax when she heard low cry of relief. "It's Blake! He's alive! And there's no one else here," he added belatedly.

Her captor cautiously removed his hand from her mouth and eased his grip somewhat, but not entirely. Although Lloyd entertained the idea of shoving him away and making her escape, she knew she'd never make it. Besides, although these strangers--they weren't Federation guards, she knew that much by now--seemed relieved that Blake was alive, that didn't mean anything. Servalan had been relieved that he lived as well.

Even as she thought about escaping, the other man gave a sharp whistle that brought a confusion of half-seen figures into the dimly lit room. She counted three in all, the last one dragging what she hoped was only an unconscious body, before the door closed behind them again. One of them activated the lock she hadn't had time to get to before her current captor came in. Then the lights came on and she blinked at the sudden brightness, studying them as she waited for someone to do or say something.

Tarrant kept one eye on Vila and one on his unwilling hostage. Technically, he knew, anyone in a Federation uniform was the enemy, but he had a hard time thinking of the young doctor as a threat, never mind how many hypodermic needles she'd come at him with. He could certainly admire her willingness to defend herself. The question was, why had she felt the need to do so? Had their escape been discovered, despite Avon's planning and Orac's assurances? It wouldn't be the first time a "fool-proof" plan had gone wrong, he thought sourly, but that didn't seem to be it. She seemed truly puzzled by their presence, at least until Vila had announced Blake's living presence, not as frightened as she had been. Certainly not at ease, but not as tense, either. As if she were expecting someone else entirely, and their presence--hostage situation or no--was a relief.

She spoke first, startling him. "You're Blake's people."

Avon, who had been heading for the inner door, paused and turned to face her. He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "And you, I suppose, are Blake's doctor."

"I am." She spoke firmly but quietly, then nodded at the door he'd been about to enter. "And my patient is still very weak right now." Her voice was urgent, but not frightened, filled more with concern for Blake than herself. "If you are his friends, then you must remember that. You mustn't agitate him. More than necessary," she added at the implacable look in the dark haired man's eyes, and the equally determined look in the eyes of the blonde standing slightly behind him. They were going in there whether she wanted them to or not, but she wasn't going to simply stand here and do nothing. Not when her patient's health was at stake.

He nodded once, then glanced at the blonde. "We need to speak to him, that's all," she promised. Lloyd frowned as she realized the other woman was holding the hand of a small child. If these were escaped prisoners, where had the boy come from? He didn't seem frightened, as if he were a hostage, but she hadn't heard or seen any children on board before the prisoners came on board.

"Jenna and I will see Blake," Avon announced. "The rest of you wait out here until we determine if he is in any condition to assist in the decision making process." He turned a sardonic eye on Lloyd. "That is, if that meets with your approval, doctor--"

"Dr. Lloyd," was the stiff reply. "I don't suppose I have any choice in the matter."

"No," Avon replied dismissively. "You don't." He, Jenna, and Jared moved toward the door again, Jenna holding back at the last second, suddenly nervous. Things had moved so quickly, she hadn't really had time to think about the fact that she was coming face to face with her son's father under less than ideal circumstances. "Jared, you wait right here, Mummy just has to go into this room for a minute."

Vila crouched next to the boy as Jenna flashed him a worried glance. "It's all right, Jenna, Jared and I have some magic tricks to discuss, don't we?" Jared nodded his head vigorously, then grinned with delight as Vila pulled a coin from behind the boy's ear. "We'll be right here when you come out."

Tarrant had finally released his hold on Lloyd, although she noticed that he kept himself between her and the small boy, Jared, and that the efficient looking blonde standing near the door held her gun like the professional Lloyd assumed her to be.

"Jared will be all right with us," Tarrant said, flashing the child a brilliant smile. The smile faded as Tarrant reached out to grip Avon's arm. "Avon, tell him...I'm sorry."

"I'm sure that will be a great comfort to him," was the sarcastic reply, but Tarrant thought the acid was a little weak today–and in light of the astonishing things Avon had been doing and saying, perhaps it was more than wishful thinking.


	9. Clearing the Air

Blake appeared to be sleeping as Jenna and Avon walked into the room, but the moment the door closed he turned his head to look at them. "What took you so long?"

He sounded weak, Avon noted clinically, trying to ignore the relief he felt upon hearing Blake's voice at all. Weak it was, but not to the point of death; it was, rather, the weakness of a man healing after injury and the trauma of repairs to that injury. In other words, the healthy weakness of recovery. "You seem to have made a habit of being difficult to find," Avon shot back, but there was a weakness in his own voice, the weakness of relief, diluting the acid of the retort. He moved closer to the bed, studying Blake, trying to gauge the extent of the other man's injuries from the amount of bandaging and the color of his skin.

But Blake's attention had shifted; he focused on Jenna now, still standing near the door. She seemed unable to bring herself closer. Avon offered her a fractional, encouraging nod, which seemed to be enough She took a hesitant step forward as he moved aside, close enough to offer support if needed, but far enough away to allow her a moment of being alone in Blake's gaze. "Jenna."

Her eyes drank him in greedily, a man she hadn't seen for too long, a man she'd once resigned herself to never seeing again. "Roj." She tried a smile.

"I knew you weren't dead," he murmured. "Deva believed it, so I let him think I did, too, but something told me it wasn't true. I knew you had your reasons--at least, I assume you did." He fell silent, waiting for her response. What Avon had intended as a simple recon mission--determine Blake's status and see if he had any suggestions for a convenient place to hole up and lick their wounds--had become, instead, a moment of reckoning. Of course, bringing Jenna to Blake right away presupposed that this meeting would be more than Avon said he intended, but he'd also known it would be impossible to keep her away from Blake. For all her determination to keep Blake and his Cause out of her life, she could no more stay away from him than Avon could. For that, he could almost feel relief at the thought of getting it over with, the accusations and recriminations that stood between them.

Jenna's smile, unsteady at best, faltered and died as she nodded. "Blake, we don't have a lot of time right now, Orac's just got control of the ship and should be taking care of the crew, but I did have my reasons, and it's time you knew them. At least, the main one." She hesitated a moment, then turned back to the door, opened it, and beckoned for someone to enter. "This is Jared." She flashed the small figure an encouraging smile as it stepped hesitantly into the room and clutched her hand. She took a deep breath and turned back to the bed. "Jared, say hello to your father."

Blake studied the small boy, who stared back at him with wide-eyed interest. He leaned against his mother for a moment, then took a step forward to get a closer look at the bandage-wrapped figure lying on the bed. "What happened to your eye?" he finally asked, with the directness of all small children.

Avon smothered a smile at Jenna's dismayed gasp; he was fairly certain that this wasn't how she'd envisioned the first meeting between father and son. But Blake was smiling at the boy, explaining that he'd had an accident, and that seemed to satisfy Jared, who turned back to his mother and asked if he could sit with Mister Vila again. She nodded, watched him dart out of the room, then turned back to Blake warily. "Vila's been keeping him amused," she explained, then faltered to a stop at the stony expression on his face.

Avon braced himself as well, managed to stand his ground as Blake studied both of them. After a moment, he spoke. "You shot me." As expected, Blake's voice held accusation.

Avon nodded, unable to speak.

Blake's gaze traveled around the bed to meet Jenna's eyes. "And you wanted me to believe you were dead." Jenna nodded, as robbed of speech as Avon. "Not only that, but you hid our son from me, never even told me about him." She nodded again. "Well." There was a long pause, then Blake cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I suppose I deserved that."

Jenna and Avon exchanged uncertain glances. "Which?" Avon finally found the voice to ask. "Which did you deserve?"

Unexpectedly, Blake laughed. It wasn't his usual laugh, deep and full and rich, but then, his chest wound hardly allowed for that sort of thing. But still, it was a laugh, no matter how weak, no matter that it ended abruptly on a hacking cough. "All of it, I suppose," Blake responded to Avon's cautious, humoring, query. Once he'd regained his breath. "All of it and more. Can you forgive me?"

Why, Avon wondered acerbically, did Blake always manage to put him off balance? This time he wasn't alone; Jenna looked as confused as he felt. And Blake, smiling through his good eye, looked quite pleased with himself. As if he enjoyed their discomfiture.

"You want _us_ to forgive _you_?" Jenna had finally found her voice, and it rang with disbelief. "After what we've just told you? Without any other explanation?"

Blake nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice serious again. "I want you to forgive me, and no, I don't require explanations. From either of you." He caught their glances, each in turn. Avon still found it difficult to get used that one-eyed gaze. Somehow, it pierced him deeper to the soul than both eyes ever had. "I _know_ why you did what you did, what drove you to it. Or rather, who." His hands lifted and fell back weakly in a gesture of self-recrimination. "I was playing games when I should have been welcoming home friends I'd long since given up hope of ever seeing again, and I allowed my obsession with the rebellion--and it had become an obsession by then--to force you away from me, Jenna. Foolishness, all of it, but it took a surgeon telling me how close I'd come to dying before I could appreciate that fact. I don't deserve your forgiveness, either of you, but I'm still asking for it. I just hope it's not too late."

He was speaking to both of them, but that last, Avon sensed, was for more for Jenna than for himself. When she nodded, uncertainly, hesitantly, and reached out to clasp Blake's hand in her own Avon saw the other man's tense shoulders relax a little, and felt his own lips curl in a brief, sardonic smile. Avon's forgiveness he seemed to take as a given, despite the multi-layered history of misunderstanding between them; was love that much more difficult to win back than loyalty and friendship, that much more fragile? He shrugged. Perhaps it was, and who was he to say otherwise?

He listened for a moment as Jenna told Blake more about Jared, then started to slip out of the room to allow them some privacy while he checked on Orac and the status of the ship.

"Avon."

He paused, then turned back to face Blake. "I assume you have some plan to get us out of here?" Avon nodded cautiously. "A place for us to go?" Avon nodded again. Blake sighed with relief, then returned his gaze to Jenna. "Good. When we get there, we need to talk about how you've been handling things in my absence. Especially the loss of a certain ship I'd grown rather fond of." He made no mention of Cally, but Avon wasn't fooled for a minute into thinking that Blake hadn't heard of her loss. Apparently he'd kept better track of them than they had of him, over the past few years. Something else for them to discuss. "Think you'll be up to it?" There was challenge in his voice and eyes, but no hostility.

Avon bared his own teeth in a mockery of a grin. "I am looking forward to it," he replied, surprised to find that he meant it. Then he left before the grin turned into a genuine smile. It would never do to let Blake think he had the upper hand.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

It was all over but the shouting. For once, to everyone's secret relief, things went exactly as planned. The entire ship's crew was knocked out and captured. A suitable planet had been located to strand them on, their two escorts had been diverted with orders "from Central Command" sending them off on a wild goose chase, and the ship was getting ready to leave orbit. Only one thing remained to be taken care of, and then they could concentrate on finding a safe place to hole up until Blake was healed enough to take over again. Avon couldn't wait; the burden was almost lifted. Even if all Blake did was say he wanted to find a safe place to raise his new-found son, that would be fine too, as long as the decision making process was finally out of his hands. But first, there was one farewell to be made.

Dr. Sanda Lloyd stood on the ship's bridge, waiting for Avon. There was almost no one left on board except herself and Blake's rebels, most of whom were busy with preparations for lift-off and ignoring her. That was fine with her, it gave her time to think. Everyone else was gone except a furious "Commissioner Sleer," cooling her heels in the ship's brig. She smiled a deeply satisfied smile at the memory of Servalan's outrage at being treated like a common criminal; Avon had ignored her furious demands to be left with the others, and Captain Tesch had certainly seemed more relieved than upset by her segregation from the rest of his crew. Only Lloyd's assurance that she was not being mistreated had allowed him, reluctantly, to leave without his young doctor, which was equally fine with her. More time to think, to plan, to reach a decision she still wasn't sure about, but which she knew had to be made. And soon.

"Forgive us for keeping you this long." She started as Avon stepped onto the bridge; she'd been so lost in thought she hadn't heard him enter. "I'm sure you understand our need to be certain that Blake would be all right--and quite frankly, you made a useful hostage in case anything went wrong," he added with disarming honesty. "We'll set you down with your shipmates now, along with any medical equipment you think you might need--"

"I want to go with you." Dr. Lloyd blushed faintly as all eyes turned to her in astonishment, but she stood her ground. She'd made up her mind. "You need a surgeon to keep an eye on Blake, at least for now. And a surgeon might come in handy at other times in your...business."

"Why?" Avon demanded suspiciously. She had his full and undivided attention now, and Lloyd found it more than a little discomfiting. Did the man realize how intense he was? "Devotion to your patient is all very well and good, doctor, but hardly a reason to go into political exile with a pack of rebels."

"My home planet was targeted for the Pacification Program," Dr. Lloyd replied. Oh yes, she decided as he continued to stare unblinkingly at her, he knew. That intensity was one of his weapons, but Lloyd refused to give him the satisfaction of showing him how intimidated she felt. At least, she hoped she did. "My cousin was able to get a message to me before we left on this mission. It was one of the oldest colonies and was completely loyal to the Federation," she continued, her voice filling with passion as the words poured out of her. "But they wanted a visible target, to use as a warning to other planets." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "When that happened, I realized I was unwilling to support a government that ruthless, that corrupt. But I didn't know what to do about it until now."

"She could be lying." That was Soolin, standing next to Dayna at the weapons console, but her voice didn't sound suspicious, just cautious. As if pointing out a fact she didn't want the others to overlook.

Avon nodded. "She could be." He smiled suddenly, a brilliant, dazzling smile that put Lloyd almost as off-balance as his earlier intensity. "But then again, she could be telling the truth. We can have Orac verify her story before we leave." He nodded again, this time at the doctor. "Besides, she's right; I think history has proven that a surgeon in the crew would be useful. If your story checks out, you can stay." He glanced around at the others. "That is, as long as the rest of you have no objections?"

The others nodded or murmured their own agreement, even Soolin, and Avon once again bestowed a smile upon their newest crewmember. "Welcome aboard, Dr. Lloyd."

"Call me Sanda," she broke in. "And I hope--I hope--" she stopped, at a loss for words.

"So do we, Sanda," Vila replied with a trace of humor. "So do we."

Interesting how things worked out, Avon mused as he headed down the corridor to his new quarters, which he'd appropriated from Servalan. _Liberator_ was dead, and they got _Scorpio_. Then _Scorpio_ died, and now they had this nameless Federation cruiser. But not nameless for long, if Avon knew Blake.

Avon stopped dead in the corridor as the realization struck him that he did, indeed, know Blake. Knew him far better than he'd ever have believed. After the impossibly long period of time spent searching for Blake, Avon had felt stretched to the breaking point, but shooting Blake had snapped him back to the cold light of sanity, forced him to realize what he was doing, who--or what--he had become. That very act seemed to have had the same effect on Blake, which was ironic, if Avon chose to think about it. An act of violence committed by one friend against another had brought them both, victim and assailant, to their collective senses, perhaps even strengthened the bond they so cautiously shared. Ironic wasn't the word for it; miraculous sprang to mind. A double miracle.

With a mental start that almost translated into physical motion, Avon realized he'd been standing in the corridor musing on the workings of fate for quite a while. He was unlikely to be disturbed, but thought it prudent to make his way to his cabin as quickly as possible; he had no desire to share his sudden insights with anyone, no matter how cozy a chat he and Jenna had shared during their mutual confinement. Someday, perhaps, but not tonight.

Healing, after all, took a long time, and now that they were all together again, he thought with a sudden rush of affection, he might be able to allow himself to do just that.

It was a comforting thought to take with him to bed.


End file.
